


Survey Says -

by SofterSoftest



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, Violaf, a silly little work, for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25730194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/pseuds/SofterSoftest
Summary: Prompt: “According to this survey, most people agree you are, in fact, a gigantic asshole.”An AU in which tomfoolery occurs. (Could be a companion piece to Smoke From This Altar, if you squint.)
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Survey Says -

*

“According to this survey, most people agree you are, in fact, a gigantic asshole.”

“You took a _survey_?” Olaf hisses, rounding on her, walking slowly across the stage. High beams of light cut odd shadows across his face, deepening his scowl. 

Violet bites her lip, stands her ground. Her stomach cramps with laughter forced down.

“Of course,” she says, innocent as sunrise. “You told me to.”

“I did _not_ ,” Olaf insists, stopping before her, his arms crossed. “I told you to find out how the public felt about our last performance. Not _me_.”

Violet shrugs, clutching the battered newspaper tightly against her chest. She could feel the eyes of the Troupe on her face from where they watched in an anxious huddle backstage, peeking from beyond the curtain’s boundary. “Well, you’re the star. I figured you’d want feedback from your adoring public.”

“Not so adoring are they?” He hisses, scowling. “You’re no help at all. Now all you’ve done is temporarily ruin my ego. I should probably just _die_. How can an impresario exist without a reverent crowd?”

“Just die, huh? That’s golden considering yesterday I heard you say, _‘Thanks to denial, I’m immortal.’”_ Violet retorts, mirroring his pose, crossing her arms. The look she casts him is all calm virtue and patience. 

Olaf, at a loss, narrows his eyes at her. In them, she sees suspicion, affection, and, much deeper, embarrassment. He says, “You are the worst theatrical assistant I’ve ever had. I should fire you.”

“To be fair, you hired me to build the sets. Not do your dirty work.” The moment she says it, Violet knows she has embarrassed herself already and glances to where the Troupe hides, watching. 

As expected, a lewd grin blooms on Olaf’s face. “ _Wrong_. I hired you because you’re pretty. You said you could invent and I rolled with it. And, Violet, as far as I’m aware - ” He pauses until she meets his eyes. They hold the sudden weight of familiarity and promise, as tactile as his hands have ever been. “You seem quite enthusiastic to do my, ah, dirty work.”

“Uh - ” she stutters, remembering their past handful of dates, face swamped by sudden blush. 

Offstage, the Troupe is reacting like she thought. Fernald’s mouth hangs open in startled disgust while the white-faced women pass wads of money to the bald man who pockets them with unsurprised satisfaction. The individual of indeterminate gender stands as still as ever, their mouth moving in a whisper, and Violet can imagine their voice clear as a memory, _“So what if they’re in bed together? She’s over eighteen, technically, and can make her own choices as a fully functional, adult woman. Right? Right.”_

Olaf laughs, sincere and loud, the sound echoing in the large civic theatre. When they meet eyes again, his are softer, less stressed. He sighs, reaches for the _Punctilio_.

“How could I ever fire you when something so small as a joke makes you blush like that? You’re too charming,” the man says, plucking the newspaper from her grip before she can hand it over. 

“Charming,” Violet scoffs, rolling her eyes to avoid looking at the Troupe, who surely react as enthusiastically as before. 

Olaf hums in assent. “I can’t believe you sent it in the _Punctilio_ all over the city. That was clever but unnecessary. Let’s see...” 

He flips to the page Violet had presented. She watches him scan the survey results with a deepening frown.

“A gigantic asshole, huh?” He mutters, rolling his eyes, tossing the paper to the stage. “What’s one more critic to such a talented man as me?”

“Olaf,” Violet whispers, deciding she cannot handle his suffering a moment more. She steps closer, crooks a single finger. He leans forward immediately, confused and concerned, to offer his ear. “Fernald paid the _Punctilio_ to make this. It’s just a single draft. Go strangle him.”

Olaf pulls away slowly, an assessing look to his face. He hums like a low note of music. After a few seconds, the man grins, threading his fingers together.

“My dear,” he promises, “He’ll get what he deserves.”

Olaf turns and stalks backstage, the Troupe scattering in his wake like a startled flock of birds as Violet watches, laughing, thoroughly amused.

*

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another fic I found buried in the depths of my computer. I don't write humor very often, but this was fun to edit again. Let me know what ya think!


End file.
